Angeltown Saints
by Aladar
Summary: A throne is earned, and never given. VtM: Bloodlines Continuation, ten years after the Ankaran fiasco.
1. Déjá Vu

**OBLIGATORY INTRO: University entrance exams are finally over and I can go back to writing at last. :) As many a Bloodlines fic, this one, too, is inspired by rednightmare's Byzantine Black- but where hers was a different look at the Angeltown events of 2004, I choose to tell a story focusing on the aftermath of it all, a decade after. Blessed be White Wolf and their V20, for giving us back the Old World of Darkness. This one story has been stuck in my head for quite a while. I'd appreciate any and all comments- good, bad and in-between. I think a writer can learn from them all. I'm starting out with T, but it'll surely go up to M for some chapters. It's the WoD after all. And I surely don't share the views of any psychos who are part of the story.**

_**Read, enjoy, review! :)**_

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_**Chapter I**_

_**Déjá Vu**_

"_**Have you ever wondered which exactly is the most dangerous piece on the chessboard?"**_

For a decade of being Prince, Maximillian Strauss had faced not one or two disasters. It had been his first duty to deal with the aftermath of his predecessor's demise, after all. The memory of that dreadful night, leaving bitter taste in a blood-witch's mouth, was still seared in his mind- as bright as the fires which had adorned the top of Venture Tower. Maximillian had doubted many of Sebastian LaCroix's self-professed virtues- leadership, intelligence… capability of not bringing the city to ruin. But the Tremere had never believed, not even in his wildest of nightmares, that he could overestimate the haughty Ventrue in any way. A Chiropteran circling around an Ivory Tower had proved to Strauss it had been a mistake putting any stock in the spoiled jester-king- even in the man's sanity.

A Masquerade breach of such magnitude was the stuff of legends- literally. Not even since the Dark Ages, when blood-sucking overlords could still rule openly over lush lands hidden deep inside a mountainous embrace, had a Kindred dared risk revealing his kind's existence to humanity. Europa had cried out in unison, shrieks of accusation and demands for blood-soaked justice. The Council had convened for weeks on end, wasting precious time in arguments, while the Nosferatu had been ran ragged until even the flimsiest of evidence had been erased. With the rising count of disposed witnesses, one wild theory after another had blossomed inside the daylight world.

Kine possessed the excellent, endearing almost, quality of reasoning away any and all hint of the supernatural they chanced to encounter. But it had been hard passing off the behemoth as a runaway weather balloon – most of them weren't in the habit of flinging cars at Downtown skyscrapers. Still, _somehow_, the Camarilla had managed to avert Gehenna. Because, mundane or not, it had been precisely the Apocalypse which had threatened all of vampire kind back then.

The Anarchs had thrived in the chaos, waiting only so long before they had struck out to expand their territory. The Sabbat, as poisonous weeds are wont to do, had come back from their decimation twice in numbers. And the Cathayans of Chinatown, swearing revenge for their fallen priestess, had forsaken all promises of peaceful coexistence with their western counterparts. Dozens of new faces had flocked to the City of Angels following the events of 2004. Akin to sharks smelling blood in the water, Kindred from San Francisco to New York and beyond had gathered in his Princedom. Predators are prone to sensing opportunity in any vortex of chaos, after all.

Indeed, the only thing Maximillian Strauss had inherited was a kingdom built atop pillars of sand and glass. With each night, the grains were shifting, the cracks getting a bit wider. For ten years the Tremere had somehow managed to avoid the Cold War between the four sides from going nuclear. He could have declined the position. Few- _if any_- amongst the rest of the Primogen had bothered hiding they were well-aware of his desire for the illusionary throne. But even they had probably guessed on him choosing the safer road once again, opting to remain the spider-king behind the curtain.

Maximillian Strauss knew full well how sharp the sword of Damocles poised above him was. He had no illusions of acting out of the goodness of his heart, had never tried to convince himself he was above the game of Jyhad all Kindred played. But even as others had scurried back into the darkness as the veil was being torn around them all, Maximillian had known one thing:

Unless someone competent had been willing to step up and bear the noose disguised as a crown, there wasn't going to be any Princedom to fight for in the future. And any match was pointless when there wasn't even a ring for the participants to fight on.

But now, as the Tremere mulled over the events of the previous night, his mind was full of doubts whether even his diplomatic abilities could avert disaster. Ashed Seneschals, above all when they happened to be Ventrue Primogen, did have the distasteful habit of teasing the dogs of war. Blue lips pursed, Maxillian didn't wonder wonder how it was always members of that particular clan who brought disaster his way. He wondered, how on Earth, they managed to achieve it by _dying_.

Maximillian pressed his forehead to the cold window of the car; chin rested on hand, and mentally prepared himself for what was to come. Doubtless some already knew- the Nosferatu never shied away from trading such juicy pieces of gossip. Wild accusations were bound to fly each and every way. Such things the Prince was more than willing to accept, as long as they were no bullets mixed in-between. Frankly, he didn't care who had put an end to the Ventrue's existence. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't even matter. Following the steps of the old song and dance, the Primogen were going to point at the Anarchs. Rodriguez' men were going to remind them, rather gleefully, Maximillian was willing to bet, of Dr. Grout's death and the Camarilla fiasco which followed.

And if one thing was certain, it was that Maximillian Strauss had no intention whatsoever of taking the risk that Nine Rodriguez could survive another blood hunt. That bothersome man was in possession of more than enough status amongst his own as it was. Woe betide the incautious Camarilla who gave him any chances to boost it further under the Wizard King's watch.

The Sabbat would have been a convenient excuse, if not for the fact that clean jobs were as far removed from their repertoire as painting was from Mozart's. And the place had been just too far away from Kuei-Jin influence for the Tremere to make a convincing argument at trying to unite the Ivory Tower with the Rabble- at least until the Eastern devils were chased away.

He didn't chastise himself for doubting. Only a fool would never doubt himself. Maximillian Strauss didn't pray or hope- such optimistic fancies he had long forgotten. No, all a Wizard King could do was wear his cracked crown with pride and keep on bearing a wire-held kingdom upon his shoulders.

The night was still young. The pale light of the waning moon never seemed to reach the streets of the city. Downtown was the same as ever- bright neon lights never managing to quite chase away the dullness inherent in the giants of concrete and steel, which ruled supreme in the heart of Los Angeles. For a city so big, it was incredibly stifling- at least to him. The buildings had no style to flaunt and no stories to tell. One glass tower after another greedily reached towards the heavens, trapping the people in a cage of their own doing. The Tremere frowned- this city held few similarities to Europe's historical hubs. His heart longed for Vienna and London and Rome. Instead, fate- and his superiors- had banished him to the mother city of the planet's glitz and glitter.

The steadfast hum of the engine mixed perfectly with the rush of air accompanying the cars they passed by. It was getting colder with each and every night. October was drawing near and autumn was already reigning supreme. Maximillian knew he should have been welcoming the change of seasons and the opportunities which longer nights provided. But he could never quite get used to the sight of Los Angeles outside of summer. The carpets of red and gold covering the parks seemed so out of place. The crooked branches of the dying trees looked like tacked on to the scenery, akin to misplaced parts of a puzzle. The Tremere could never-_would never_ perhaps- accept the city as his own. And so he accepted looking only at the tourist-trap version of Angeltown in summer, the most likely way a visiting outsider would remember the city.

The car turned round one last corner, the Nocturne already coming in sight. Maximillian let out a tired sigh, pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose, and exited the vehicle. The driver kept the engine running, but now that the Tremere was outside, he couldn't rely on it drowning out the nightly hustle. The degenerate music stemming from the church-club was somehow managing to reach his ears from several blocks away. With yet another sigh, the Prince made his way inside, barely bothering to offer a curt nod to the two standing guard outside. He couldn't hear the music inside the theatre- praised be the small miracles. Instead, it was the chatter of those already gathered- much akin to a kicked beehive- which greeted him.

The backstage was almost empty- save for a few more guards, stereotypical black suits and useless sunglasses on at night. Maximillian eyed their hands, resting ready on guns' handles, with disdain. Any shot fired in the Nocturne tonight could brand the place their own Sarajevo- the situation was tense as it was, considering their Franz Ferdinand was already dead. Still, the Tremere chased the thoughts of assassinated royalty away from his mind and tried to do likewise with the stubbornly impending headache. Ordering them to leave any weapons aside wouldn't be only foolish, the Prince concluded. Any hint of weakness and doubt, any divergence from the status quo he had so carefully preserved, could spell disaster as well.

No, the Witch King knew that his subjects- and any other gathered on that night- needed to see what they were used to. Information of any kind was worth only as much as the ones involved in the trade believed in it. And the Kindred from Los Angeles were going to see that to their leader the unlife of one Ventrue elder wasn't worth any more than that of a measly fledgling. If anything, Maximillian was more than willing to endure the whines and moans of the victim's pride-wounded clanmates if that was all the cost for keeping peace.

"Regent Strauss!" called out a female voice from behind, tearing the Prince away from his grim musings. "Excuse me, Regent Strauss!"

Accompanied by the signature _click-clack_ of stiletto heels, manila folder in hand, Caroline Sawyer was almost sprinting towards him in a one-person stampede. Green eyes, a curious shade between shamrock and lime, met his own tired ones with a steel gaze. A single strand of hair framed her young face; the rest of it neatly tied in a bun. Maximillian had never gotten used to the dullness of its color. It was lifeless red, fire without flames. Still, he would lie if he ever accused the woman of being plain. Signature black suit revealed shapely legs, whilst crimson shirt hid an ample enough bosom. Once, centuries ago, Maximillian would have probably spared more than a passing glance to his fellow Tremere's features. But long ago he had learned to pay attention to what lurked beneath a person's looks.

Miss Sawyer was sharp- in more ways than one. Calm, stoic, collected- those were the words he could best describe her with. She never flustered, at least not outwardly so. She was never one for leisurely talks either. The Lord of the West Coast had sent her specifically to take the newly-chosen Prince's own former position. Barely an ancilla, Caroline Sawyer had already caught the eyes of the upper echelons of the clan. She was seemingly the perfect blend of qualities a Tremere should possess. A keen mind and thirst for arcane knowledge worked in synchronicity with her willingness to obey those above her to the letter. The new Regent of Angeltown was a follower- and the Lords and Pontifices prized such a quality more than any other, when it came to their own clan. Strauss himself had learned that first hand.

But the man bore no ill will to his female counterpart. Miss Sawyer had proved herself more than able to handle the local Chantry's affairs. The Prince possessed no knowledge of the woman's Thaumaturgical abilities- and it was rude to ask- but he doubted a run-on-the-mill sorceress could capture a Lord's interest in any way. Besides, the Wizard King was glad to have at least one Primogen on his side. His Seneschal had been in the habit of agreeing to any of Strauss' suggestion only after a month's worth of vehement disagreement.

"Miss Sawyer, how many times have I already told you?" said Strauss, hands behind his back, tired voice betraying stoic features. "You need not address me with this title anymore. No Chantry has more than a single Regent."

"A police report from today you might like to see," plainly stated the woman, promptly ignoring his words. He decided on letting the little transgression slide, given the incessant tapping of heel on hardwood floor. Few things could make the Regent visibly nervous.

His pursed lips grew thinner, if it was even possible, as Strauss skimmed the papers. Whoever was behind this was either the most stupid of assassins or was aiming to provide the spark needed to turn Los Angeles into a warzone.

"The news are disturbing indeed," admitted Maximillian and he returned the folder to her waiting hand, red talons contrasting with its off-white color as she grasped it. "Has the media gotten word of it?"

"No. At least not yet," replied Miss Sawyer, shaking her head. "The police are trying to keep it as quiet as possible but it's bound to be revealed eventually. We need to tell the Commissioner to be particularly careful in choosing who handles the case."

"Indeed," absent-mindedly replied the Prince, too busy trying to discern something coherent from the increasingly incessant rambling of those gathered that night. "Well, excuse me, Miss Sawyer, but it seems my audience lacks some much needed patience."

He didn't wait for an answer, nor did she expect one. The Prince merely turned around, a slight swish to his crimson trenchcoat, and made his way to center stage. His last three steps echoed out, even and matched. A tense silence had descended as soon as the Kindred of Los Angeles had gotten sight of their Prince. Maximillian allowed himself only a moment of preparation, just enough to scan over those who had answered his call. More than he had expected, yet still much too few. Some of the Primogen had apparently deemed it unnecessary to attend in person. The Prince had more urgent business than to feel offended.

"Fellow Kindred," began the Tremere, booming voice a perfect mirror to his soldierly posture. "Pardon me for gathering you on such quick notice tonight, but, alas, a recent and unexpected turn of events requires it."

It was only then, upon greeting them, upon feeling the brunt of all those scrutinizing glares, when he realized how familiar the scene was. It had been a different Prince back then, accompanied by a brute, a doomed Sire and a Fledgling no older than a night. The Nocturne was bearing witness to an eerily similar performance. The same actors were playing different roles, and LaCroix's flamboyant bravado was thankfully absent, but it still weighed heavy on the Prince's mind. His predecessor had marked the beginning of his end on that very same stage. Strauss only hoped he wouldn't become the architect of his own demise in a similar fashion.

The only Final Death he would never accept was ending up a copy of Sebastian LaCroix.

"Last night, while on a… visit to St. Lucia Academy, one of our own met his unfortunate demise. Albrecht Weissmann's Final Death was confirmed earlier tonight. The one behind this crime is yet to be determined and so I urge you- _strongly_- to refrain from any accusations until we gather conclusive evidence."

They had reacted much like Strauss had expected them to. Suspicious stares were matched in number only by the multitude of false gasps. Only Abrams' debaucherous childe- still seemingly lacking any knowledge in basic dressing etiquette- seemed genuinely aghast. Or maybe she could just fake it better and the Prince was fool enough to fall for it. Baron Hollywood himself looked as smug as ever. Both men had never had much good to say about one another, but after the fiasco with that stone-skinned oaf, Maximillian was willing to trade away half his Princedom just to see the Toreador nailed to an east-facing wall. His latest childe- Ramirez or something similar (Strauss had no interest in the filmmaker's bad taste in childer)- was one of the few who kept their reactions to themselves.

Imalia, substituting for her sire like always as of late, was drilling daggers through the skull of Abrams' red-haired childe. The Cleopatra could capture the heart of many an unknowing mortal, perfect Obfuscate mirroring the raven-black curly tresses and olive skin she had possessed in life. But still, Strauss doubted any Nosferatu was capable of missing on gossip even if they were distracted. Golden wouldn't have sent her otherwise.

Therese Voerman, in contrast, seemed deeply entranced by the news. Judging by the haughty smile dancing on false-Ventrue lips, the Malkavian Primogen was already imagining herself Seneschal. Her ambitions would never bear fruit under his watch, though- Strauss needed to be madder than any of her clan to place the ambitious former Baron merely a step below him.

Nines Rodriguez and his cadre of hot-blooded neonates seemed noticeably on edge. The Anarch icon himself kept his signature stone-cold demeanor. Arms crossed and gaze defiant, his steel grey eyes were even now sending a not-so-subtle challenge to the Wizard King. Maximillian couldn't care less. As convincing as he found the Anarch leader's imitation of an angered peacock, he had no intention whatsoever of giving him any chance to take center stage. His Anarch guests, on the other hand, apparently thought him more foolish than that. The usually carefree Toreador was eyeing the nearest Camarilla supporters warily, as if expecting them to jump any second. The dark-skinned lieutenant was equally on edge, albeit masking his anxiousness behind a soldier's stoic façade. A recent addition to Angeltown's Anarchs, one of Jack's foul-mouthed childer, was resting her hands in disappointment on the places where she usually kept her guns.

And speaking of the so-called Anarch "icon", Jack himself was thankfully missing. The elder Brujah would have been Strauss' prime suspect in the death of any Ventrue elder, if not for that fact the supposed ex-pirate had ridden off north two years ago to halt the Cathayan invasion. The Prince glanced wearily at the row of support pillars on his right. There was no cigarette light sparkling in the darkness like ten years ago. Only a lone Caitiff slumped lazily at the base of one of the columns, midnight blue eyes observing the audience from under a mop of black hair stuck in a state of perpetual dishevelment. Maximillian couldn't decide whether to be surprised the man was looking serious for a change, or to chastise himself for not realizing even a Vagabond could fancy himself a secret player in the game of Jyhad.

"Rest assured that I will _personally_ make sure justice is served. The Camarilla will not tolerate any attacks towards its own, be it neonate or elder. To all of you who doubt foul play on my part," said the Prince and threw a not particularly subtle glance in the Anarachs' direction. "You should be already well-aware how important our continued peaceful coexistence is to me, in the face of the adversaries we face. As long as you are innocent in this matter, you need not fear."

Another pause, another half a minute of tense silence.

"Three days from now I will hold a meeting for the Primogen, so a new Seneschal can be chosen from amongst them. That is all."

"_That is all?" _echoed a voice from somewhere above, each word punctuated by a blend of mockery and anger. Before the Prince had even looked up, he knew who he was going to see looking down on him from one of the lounges.

Leonard Weissmann, a dead Seneschal's prized childe-fueled by only that particular brand of fury a spurned Ventrue could muster- was currently looking ready to either shoot or pounce on his Prince. The usual translucent red of his irises was now a deep crimson, like a blossoming rose. He had obviously fed recently, eliminating the possibility of losing himself to his instincts- although the Wizard King was almost sure he would prefer dealing with a frothing Beast than a spoiled Ventrue childe. Leonard ran a hand through slicked back silvery-white hair and clutched the railing with the other, nails digging deep into lacquered mahogany. The albino exhaled through gritted fangs, angered sigh coming out as a viper's hiss.

"A member of your own council, your own Seneschal," began Leonard, more calmly this time- which could only spell out an impending storm for the Prince. "Is killed in a place branded as Elysium by your own hand… And all you do is call for a flimsy social gathering just to clue us all in on recent events?! And why did I have to be informed by Nosferatu contacts that my own sire had been turned to ashes _on our own ground_, Strauss? Your leniency on this matter-"

"Is nonexistent," interjected the Wizard King, voice even, glasses hiding the annoyance in his narrowed eyes. He shot a glance at Imalia- her knowing smirk disappeared a second too late. "I have already looked into the matter. I would advise you to stop acting on presumptions, neonate- and that is precisely the reason why I did not inform you any sooner."

"We are being bled dry, Strauss!" shouted the Ventrue, clamping another hand on the railing. "I don't know what games you are playing, nor do I know what schemes you concoct. But even I- a _neonate_," he smirked at the word, tossing the Prince's own dagger back at him. "Can plainly see the Camarilla is losing ground, prestige and power. For ten years of ruling, how many times have you actually ben proactive? Your precious peace is rotting us from the inside-out! All you are doing is removing bricks from the bottom to add to the top and wondering why your castle isn't getting any higher."

"Your Brujah passion has been duly noted, Mr. Weissmann," replied the Prince, uncaring for the glares he earned from those Rabble present. He could spot a Cheshire grin stretching across the Caitiff's face. "I thank you all for answering my call tonight. This meeting is over."

The sireless Ventrue looked more than willing to argue with the finality of Strauss' statement, but the Prince gave him no chance. As the Tremere retraced his steps to the back door he wondered if the killer had been present amongst the Kindred gathered. Anyone else would have considered Leonard as a prime suspect, but the Prince knew the younger Weissmann was much too cunning. Behind Ventrue haughtiness and tons of excess pride worked a shrewd mind, one that would grow dangerous after several decades. Even with his relative lack of experience Leonard would have never risked making a move to usurp his sire so early in unlife. His reaction had been a surprising one, actually, unless it had been a ploy meant to undermine the Wizard King's authority.

Nines Rodriguez himself was too much of a good politician to risk disturbing the equilibrium of power without having a decisive trump card. The Anarch hero would never admit it of course- be it under pain of torture, death or Tzimisce fleshcrafting- but behind the Robin Hood façade lay an ancilla well-versed in the game of Jyhad. Still, the Tremere was used to duplicity in Kindred. There was no surprise in the former Baron's blend of egalitarianism preaching, accompanied by an almost Ventrue-like realpolitik instinct.

Abrams would have never dared risk his precious Hollywood by- God forbid- actively showing which side he "fought" for. Golden was interested only in ruling his dung-filled, pest-infested Warrens, listening on to others' conversations in the meantime. Voerman, if only by eliminating the other alternatives, remained the likeliest of suspects. The woman could hide behind her corporate persona, but there was no denying the existence of the Malkavian madness coursing through her veins. No doubt she could convince herself in the rightness of her actions, even if the voice inside her head urged her to greet the sunrise stark naked.

Of course, the Prince was not yet willing to rule out any other options. But Leonard Weissmann was going to need a prey to chase after while Strauss looked for the truth behind it all. And what better prey could he offer the Ventrue than an overly ambitious turncoat fox?

"All in all, I expected something worse," chimed in Miss Sawyer from her place leaning on the side of the car. "What is your suggested course of action, Regent?"

The Tremere didn't bother correcting her and only accepted the open door. The woman took her place next to the driver, her nose soon buried once again into the police reports. As the clocks in Angeltown struck midnight and announced the beginning of October, Maximillian Strauss weighed option after option in his mind.

"Call Mr. Weissmann into my office," he announced eventually, eyes gazing at the appalling glass pieces of architecture the car passed by. "And inform Mr. Blake you have a job for him."

The female Tremere nodded knowingly and pulled out a phone.


	2. HeadsTails

_**Chapter II**_

_**Heads/Tails**_

"**You can't live in more than one mansion, you can't drive more than one car. Wealth becomes redundant after a while. But the game? The game can go on forever."**

"For future reference, Mr. Blake, do keep in mind it is _expected_ of you to show up on time."

Well, what _he_ had expected was a somewhat different greeting. Connor had imagined being faced with grandiose receptions meant to cow his feeble thin-blooded mind, or perhaps at least a little show of Tremere magecraft mastery. Instead, the Caitiff's first meeting with Angeltown's Regent was reminiscent of a schoolboy being scolded by the headmistress. But, considering Connor was already a man grown and Caroline Sawyer looked a bit younger than the average pencil-pushing principal, school comedy wasn't exactly the first movie genre which came to mind.

"Pardon my tardiness, Regent," said the Caitiff and bowed as much as anyone hell-bent on keeping his hands in his pockets could. "It was _never_ my intention to offend you."

It was a lie and both of them perfectly knew it. Connor Blake had made it his mission in life to grate the nerves of every pure-blood he encountered. And he was sure that merely his current attire- half-tucked dress shirt and red tie, bleached jeans and formal shoes- could give an aneurysm to any members of at least three clans. Considering the Ventrue office drone vibe he was getting in waves from his host, Sawyer herself was probably less than pleased she had been forced to entertain him.

Both Kindred refused to avert their eyes from one another- midnight blue battled eerie green for dominance. Connor didn't know if she expected him to cower, tail tucked between his legs. Perhaps she was beginning to doubt his mental capabilities. He couldn't blame her, the Caitiff admitted. Any other Kindred would have thought twice before intimidating a blood-witch in her own Haven. A Ventrue would've been much less condescending; a Brujah would've bitten his tongue to halt any remarks. But to a sireless stray a Tremere's Chantry was no different than a Nosferatu's Warren or a Toreador's night club. When the danger of being kicked out (at best) or used as spare parts (at worst) was a constant in your life, some places just stopped being that threatening.

Any true-blood's Haven could've been his Alcatraz. And Connor Blake wasn't about to stroke some paper-pusher's ego, no matter whether she could ash him with a snap of her perfectly manicured fingers or not.

"Mr. Blake," finally said Sawyer, breaking eye contact and apparently deciding to be the mature one in the situation. "You have been called here tonight because I need your… _services_ on a very delicate matter."

The Regent kept her tone calm and even. Only red talons tapping on red oak revealed any kind of irritation on her part. He had to give it to her- so far the Tremere was downright amicable considering how some of his clients usually treated him. The lack of mockery and slurs did earn her some brownie points in his book. If only a little. And Connor Blake was almost _nearly_ sure the fact that he wouldn't have minded seeing her dancing naked under the moonlight, wrists slit- or whatever the hell blood-witches did- had affected his opinion.

Still, such things never meant he was obliged to be civil in turn. God forbid, it would just ruin his hard-earned mongrel reputation.

"Well, you've certainly gotten my attention," replied the Caitiff, fanged smile bared, and plopped himself down on the decorated chair in front of her ornamented desk. The Regent didn't bother reminding him she had given him no permission to sit. Both of them knew what the result would have been:

"_I don't remember asking for any."_

Any other Kindred- neonate or elder- would have probably suffered through his blood turning into fire afterwards. But he was Caitiff- mutt, mongrel, sireless stray- and to put any importance on his words would mean accepting him as equal as well. Caroline Sawyer- mage, Regent, _Tremere_- would have never allowed such a blow to her pride.

The joke's on them, he always thought. They were the ones who had shoehorned him into the role of the royal jester. And, as it has always been said, you reap what you sow. The world had declared Connor Blake a bastard- and he had fashioned from it the hardest armor he could ever possess.

"As you are aware, Albrecht Weissmann met his unfortunate end last night on the grounds of St. Lucia Academy," continued Sawyer, rummaging through a cabinet unseen from his side. "His demise could spell disaster for this city-no sense in beating around the bush," added the Tremere upon noticing his raised eyebrow. "The main problem is our lack of evidence on who to blame. Unless the killer is revealed, any of the sects can use his murder as leverage to declare open war."

For someone so concerned for the well-being of LA, she certainly wasn't acting the part. But Connor said nothing as he accepted the folder handed to him- the Regent looked the type to be more concerned by misplaced staplers than urban warfare. The Caitiff leafed through the documents, bangs of raven black hair hiding his eyes from hers.

"What the Prince didn't tell at the meeting, however," said Sawyer and scrutinized the stray under a surgeon's glare. "Is that there was someone else present at the scene of the crime. This girl-Serena Breckenridge- was with our former Seneschal. She is currently missing and the LAPD is supposedly about to put its best and brightest on the case," finished Sawyer and pinched the bridge of her nose, as if to fight off an impending headache.

"I thought the principal at St Lucia's is a Cam ghoul," said the Caitiff and raised his eyes from the police reports. He was sure of it, actually- but it never hurt playing a bit dumber than you were.

"That he is," confirmed Sawyer, disdain finally seeping through her voice. "But the man's greed has long gotten the better of him. Forget _careless_, he must be getting _senile_, considering the ones he offers as blood dolls. The girl's father is a senator! And now that she's gone there's no putting a lid on it. It doesn't matter whether he's truly concerned, fishing for sympathy or both. He will want this little mystery unveiled at any cost."

"Aaand we don't want that," helpfully summarized Connor. The Regent didn't seem in the mood to answer his knowing smirk. "She could as well be decomposing as we speak, face down in some ditch," added the Caitiff. "The kind who dust Ventrue elders usually aren't known to care for little Kine girls."

His eyes once again drifted back to her picture. Chocolate brown eyes greeted him along with a smile on a freckled face. She looked around fifteen, with fiery red hair falling past her shoulders. The man glanced up to his host- Sawyer's shade of rusty blood was nothing like it.

"True," admitted the Regent with the same tone one could discuss a TV schedule. "And while it would probably prevent any unneeded leaks, we would much prefer the girl alive and under Camarilla custody. This is your job. Find her and bring her back- _unharmed_- and you will be handsomely rewarded."

"Such a clichéd line," said Connor and shook his head. "All you're missing is a fluffy feline to stroke menacingly while you concoct your devious schemes."

"Your humor is not appreciated, Mr. Blake," dryly answered the Regent.

"Well, it should. We all need some laughs in our unlife these nights, with all this doom and gloom waffling around in the air."

"I suggest you take the information provided and start _immediately_," said the redhead, her voice conveying clearly thinly veiled behind insistence threats. A sane man would have probably obeyed.

Connor Blake prided himself on being many things- cunning, witty, ranked about nine on Mohs scale of hardness when it came to stubbornness- but he had never claimed to be a mentally sound person. Surviving as Caitiff had the habit of knocking a few screws loose over the years.

"Now, now, we can't shake hands until we've talked about the details of said reward, can we?"

Despite looking very much like she wanted to vivisect him with a letter opener, Caroline Sawyer relented.

"Money isn't a problem. Whatever price you desire, as long as it is reasonable enough, of cou-"

"My mistake there, sorry," interrupted Connor and leaned forward, fingers steepled. "What I actually meant to ask is, _who_ exactly hires me to do this job? Is it you, as a Regent, or our dearest Prince?"

"I fail to see how this is relevant," coldly replied the redhead.

"Quite the contrary- it makes all the difference in the world. You see, I deal in _favors_,"- blue eyes reflected artificial light with an eerie glow-"Sometimes I cash them in as money, true. But in this instance, well, I think no monetary gain can equal potentially being owed a favor by a _Prince_."

He was toeing the line and he knew it. Her incessant nail tapping had stopped, indicating the Tremere had achieved a whole new level of disdain for the Caitiff. Connor wished to say it was a measured risk- it was anything but. He could only bet on the strength of his neutrality. A stray owed allegiance to no one- and it was precisely someone unburdened by loyalty they needed. The Sabbat and the Chinese devils were out of the question, the Anarchs they couldn't trust either- and the hazard of the murder being an inside job was present as well. Connor was sure the Prince was going to conduct a thorough investigation of his own- but he also needed someone like him to do the dirty work. And this stray was perfect for it.

At least in theory.

Moments stretched out into eternity as he waited for her answer. The room itself seemed to be getting smaller- and, by God, why were those blood-witches so hell-bent on the red color scheme?! The place was like a matador's nightmare. Connor only hoped the place wouldn't also end up being his gravesite. That kind of end he had certainly never imagined- being ashed in a mage's haven, amidst the smell of aged books and wet ink on paper. The Caitiff only hoped he would at least leave a mean enough stain on the Persian carpet to spite them.

"Your club has already been declared Elysium," finally blurted out the Regent, more astounded than annoyed. "What more can you possibly ask for?"

"I'm sure I'd come up with something," replied Connor and hoped she hadn't noticed his shoulders slump in relief. "And my club is in Hollywood. I really doubt our Mr. Strauss can honestly claim any influence over the Baron's decision making."

With overflowing folder firmly in hand, the Caitiff stood up and briskly headed to the door. The Regent's farewell was as warm as her greeting.

"And this time, Mr. Blake, do remember not to touch any of the books."

"I was just going to leaf through the little one," answered Connor, hand still clutching the ornate handle. He beamed a smile he hoped could pass off as innocent, despite his elongated fangs. "You can't blame me for being curious."

"Curiosity killed the cat," bluntly stated Sawyer, legs crossed and a fountain pen twirled around her fingers. Connor was willing to hazard the guess she imagined it sticking out from his jugular.

"But I'm no cat, remember? Like my peers are so fond of reminding me, I'm just a mangy mutt."

He could feel her eyes burning a hole through his back even after he closed the door.

If Maximillian Strauss had any illusions of scolding him into submission, then he had another thing coming.

Leonard Weissmann didn't enter through the sliding doors of Venture tower as a guest or as a servant summoned. His straight back and determined look weren't a gesture of defiance. It wasn't a matter of spiting the Prince by showing that the neonate could shrug off his dissatisfaction. Leonard wasn't, in any way, rebelling- because in the Ventrue's mind there wasn't anyone above him to oppose. Rabble rousing and useless flexing of proverbial muscles just weren't his style. Any who needed to do it to assert their authority weren't worthy of it in the first place.

Leonard intended to show the Prince just that.

Some may have blamed him of being arrogant. Hell, many certainly considered him a coddled little lord Fauntleroy just based on the blood in his veins. He found it amusing, in a way- how people could often mistake arrogance for justified pride. It was the stigmata his clan had been forced to bear ever since antiquity. Tall poppy syndrome was a vicious thing- and the only weapon the lesser had against their betters. Leonard didn't need any Fortitude to weather a bit of meaningless slander. He wasn't successful because he had been embraced in his clan.

Albrecht had chosen him in the first place precisely _because_ he had achieved it all on his own beforehand.

True, there was the occasional mistake sired into the clan. True, aside from the usual embraces of passion, there was also the irregular dimwit born into money who made it into their ranks. But to all those who gnashed their jaws in his direction and pointed with impotent jealousy, there was only one thing Leonard could say:

"Do not mistake the statement of facts for boasting."

He was smart, resourceful and cunning. He was strong, determined and unafraid. And he would've stayed an orphanage-bound gutter rat if he wasn't.

And that was why Leonard Weissmann had entered as if he owned the place. The rotund guard at the front desk, some leftover from the old regime, abandoned a half-eaten burger and attempted to strike up a conversation. He got the same treatment as the bubbleheaded Toreador decoration further back- an absent-mindedly waved hand as the Ventrue stormed towards the elevators.

The ride upwards stretched somewhere between five minutes and eternity. Leonard hated such things- moments of absolute stillness when he could only twiddle his thumbs and do nothing. Just as his irritation was starting to bubble up to the surface, the elevator announced they had reached their destination with an almost apologetic "ding". The Ventrue was thankful Strauss hadn't bothered to install any elevator music- it would've been too much to bear.

His steps echoed like gunshots across the one-way corridor. The double doors in the far end, gilded frame and pearl-white color, held no significance to him. They didn't mark some threshold beyond which lay unknown danger. Many would have squirmed to enter a blood-witch's haven, true. But Leonard put enough faith in Strauss' mental capabilities to know the Tremere would never dare raise a hand against him. One dead Ventrue was cause enough for concern. Another one, with Strauss at fault no less, would mean the whole clan cleaning their hands off LA.

And Leonard would have very much liked to know how on Earth Strauss was going to hold a Camarilla Princedom without the sect's main pillar in town.

No, the doors were no particular milestone. The Prince probably expected a neonate with a tail between his legs, doing a walk of penance down the marble floor. Leonard concluded his victory march by pushing open the doors with both hands.

"Mr. Weissmann," plainly stated Strauss from his place behind the ornamented desk, unfazed by the Ventrue's grand entrance. "I see you were in quite the hurry to answer my summons."

Sarcasm. How _original_.

"Seeing the state of affairs these last few nights," replied Leonard from his spot at the entrance. "I decided some urgency would help us for a change."

"Too much persistence can lead to tunnel vision," countered the Prince, eyes unseen behind round wire-frame glasses. "And I doubt I need to tell you how dangerous it can be to lose sight of one's surroundings."

"Sage words," said the Ventrue, pale eyes fighting to pierce through the motionless mask that was his adversary's face. "So are we going to just stand here, flinging proverbs at each other until sunrise?"

"Straight to business as usual, I see," answered Strauss with a chuckle and rested his arms on the desk. Stoic eyes glanced over the edge of his glasses and finally obliged to answer the neonate's unspoken challenge. That was it. The battle of wills and wits had begun. A smile tugged at the edge of Leonard's lips. Strauss was lost in the illusion he was fighting on his own territory- an illusion the Ventrue was more than willing to dispel.

The office, if one could call a room spacious enough to fit several families merely an _office_, certainly had a distinct Tremere vibe to it. There were no paintings- no space for them really. The walls were hidden behind bookcases tall enough you'd need a ladder to reach the top. The scent of incense, burnt candles and musky tomes permeated the air, making it too heavy for one to breathe without wanting to gag. And amidst it all was Strauss' desk, a twin pair of cushioned armchairs on both sides. The Prince looked almost too small, trapped between the furnishings of his lair. It was more a vault of arcane knowledge than a throne room. There were no mystical whisperings stemming from the artifacts contained within- but the general Hogwarts knock-off feel was still there.

What the Prince seemed to forget, however, was how characteristically blue-blood Venture Tower was as a whole. The skyscraper had been fully renewed after its last owner's unfortunate demise. Strauss had chosen it as his seat of power partially because of practicality. Holding court inside his Chantry would've raised too much concern for his already much too clear preference for the betterment of his own clan. But the Tower was a symbol as well. A Camarilla phoenix rising from the ashes, swifter and stronger. The whole place was meant to be a monument to the sect's ability to turn any defeat into a mere _setback_.

And sadly an eternal reminder of Sebastian LaCroix's abysmal pun-based sense of humor.

Still, the whole place, from its steel skeleton to its glossy glass façade, was undoubtedly _Ventrue_. And Strauss was just a deluded wizard, fighting from inside his own Rome-encircled Vatican.

"Still, it's not like you to be so brash, neonate," finally said Strauss. There was a hint of amusement in his voice. Leonard didn't know why he had expected anything different- it was a typical elder's reply. The Ventrue still couldn't fathom how one could number his years in the hundreds and still deal with those younger than him like parents treated five-year-olds.

"Your own sire always described you as cool and calculated," insisted on continuing the Prince. "Knowing him, I highly doubt it was a wrong assessment. But, if I may just lend you this one advice, refrain from showing so openly how much his death unhinges you."

Leonard was absently aware of flexing his fists. His gums were already crying out in pain from the growing pressure of clenched fangs. Wounded pride screamed revanchism and blood-bond loyalty which had outlived his sire demanded revenge. The Ventrue cracked a bitter smile, let out a breath and reined his wrath in. Losing control meant losing the battle. The Prince was right about one thing- the younger Weissmann was more ice than fire. Switching strategies at such an inopportune moment spelled "failure" with bright glittering letters if one thought about it.

"Albrecht's death is just the last straw," said Leonard and sat down on the chair facing Strauss. Legs crossed and chin rested on one arm, the Ventrue prepared to do what his clan excelled at- pitch a sell to an unwilling customer. "As clichéd as it sounds, there's blood in the water now and every shark in this city can smell it. If you let this go unavenged, everyone will know the Camarilla is fair game. Next time it can be one of yours. Next time, it can be _you_."

"For ten years, ever since that god-awful fiasco of my predecessor," countered the Prince and sent a weary glance at a pair of scissors innocently lying on his desk. "I have kept peace in this city. Do not presume, neonate, not even for a second, that it didn't wound my pride as well to see our influence shrink. But, plainly stated, we just can't handle an open war. We don't have the allies, we don't have the resources and we don't have the luxury to risk getting into one. And _if_, by some miracle, we do manage to win it, we won't be able to hold any new territory for more than a month."

"I am well aware of this city's Camarilla current state," said the Ventrue, unrelenting. "And that is precisely why I'm suggesting we change course. A new Toreador Primogen wouldn't hurt anyone. A bit of tolerance for the Giovanni, who still are clamoring to get a foothold into LA as far as I recall, as well. The Anarchs and the Sabbat are as much at each other's throats as they are at ours. Not to mention how delighted any Cathayan devil would be at getting the chance to mince some Kindred, regardless of affiliation."

"Need I remind you why precisely your clanmate met his end in this very room?"

Leonard didn't know if it was threat or an honest warning. Nor did he care.

"The pessimist sees difficulty in every opportunity, the optimist sees opportunity in every difficulty," announced the Ventrue with a smirk stretching from ear to ear.

"Churchill, was it?" asked the Tremere, a question more rhetoric than inquisitive. "You will need much more than wise quotes to dissuade me, neonate."

"I'm not suggesting we declare blood hunt on Nines Rodriguez or march into Sabbat territory," said Leonard. He was prepared to tackle the argument with all the stubbornness of a Malk insisting the voices in his head were real if he had to. "But we can _prepare_ and we can strike from the dark. Nudge things in our favor before anything escalates."

"I will not stop you from searching for your sire's murderer," said Strauss with a decisive tone which showed he would've liked nothing more than for their conversation to be over. "It is your right as his childe, that much is certain. I cannot speak for our enemies- but from within our own ranks, the only one I doubt is Primogen Voerman. That woman has shown long ago loyalty isn't her forte when moving up in the hierarchy is at stake."

Leonard cheered on the inside. Such blatant derailments and baits meant the Prince was running out of decent arguments. The neonate wished he had thought of recording this beforehand. That lunatic Ventrue-wannabe would've probably declared war on Strauss all on her lonesome. Hell, if her whore of a sister managed to field every man (woman and whatever else) she had "played around" with, they'd gather a veritable army in no time.

"Do you know what is the difference between you and me, Strauss?" asked Leonard and leaned towards the Prince. "Forget about which age we were born into, or what kind of blood courses through our veins. Here's the _real_ difference: we both face the same precipice. But I will not hesitate to leap. I might fall or I might make it, but sure as hell- I'll try regardless. And you'll just cling to the cliffside, afraid to move because you think you'll stir the rocks. Here's the thing Strauss- you can't cling on forever. "

"Then I guess the whole city should thank whatever power be that you are not in charge of it."

He had crossed a line- unsuspectingly, unwantedly, _unknowingly_- but there was no going back. And Leonard wouldn't have stopped even if he had known about it prior. Some risks you just had to take to profit. The Prince didn't raise his voice. He spoke calmly, but his words were ice cold enough to burn. They tore into the Ventrue, pierced flesh and sliced through bones to gnaw onto marrow.

"Are you that _arrogant_ to be willing to wager the lives of hundreds, if not more, on a whim? Are you really that much of a blistering _fool_ to risk losing all we have managed to preserve on the off-chance we can gain, what? One more neighborhood? Some beach property perhaps? You claim descent from the blood of kings and yet can't seem to be able to wrap your mind around the idea that a true leader isn't meant to act with all the forethought of a moody schoolboy! This isn't some game, neonate. There are no second chances, no takebacks. It's life, death or worse and I _refuse_ to believe your sire didn't teach you all of this years ago. And you dare march into my haven and try to convince me you can do a better job at ruling this Princedom when even a night-old fledgling can plainly see any ship will drown with you at the helm?"

Leonard Weissmann hated many things, chief of all being left speechless. The Ventrue ran a hand through his slicked-back hair and winced. Awful, unsavory habit- a reminder of an orphaned boy trying to hide his abnormalities when speaking to others. The man reached inside himself and looked for all that righteous fury he had been overflowing with- but found only a sireless childe too tired to rampage.

"Do you know which is the most valuable resource of all, Strauss?" asked the Ventrue, voice flat.

"I'm sure you would be more than happy to educate me on this matter," deadpanned the Prince.

"It's time," plainly stated Leonard and gazed up, inadvertedly bearing undefended neck to the other predator. The crystal chandelier was stylized to resemble glass candles. "No amount of money or power can buy you time. The thought of this used to drive me crazy, you know. I could go swimming and wonder: why waste time alone? I slept with a woman and asked myself why I'm indulging in basic needs instead of doing something productive. I worked and chastised myself for not having a kid- I had to leave something _meaningful_ behind, right? Irony of ironies: I was wasting more and more time while thinking how to spend it best. For all my abilities, I could find only one weakness I possessed. Like any human, I was mortal. The house in Miami, my precious trophy wife and all those dollars in Swiss banks would mean nothing in the end."

Strauss only listened, seemingly unwilling to put an end to his rant just yet.

"Albrecht put an end to this misery. He gave me the greatest gift of all- potentially _unlimited_ time. And it suddenly all had meaning again. There was a point to it all, to this whole damn struggle between everybody to climb higher. And I could finally devote myself to it, knowing there was a method to the madness."

Leonard stood up and once again met the eyes of the Prince. Pale red irises bore renewed determination. No defeats- only setbacks. It was the Camarilla creed, the Ventrue creed. And his own- for wasn't he a blue-blood to the marrow of his bones?

"My whole life I had achieved every little thing with my own two hands. And Albrecht just _gave me_ the greatest gift of all. Of all the things I hate, being in debt is pretty high up on the list. And some bastard took away from me the only chance I had of repaying him for a _kindness_ he could've offered to any Wallstreet goffer capable of tallying his bank numbers."

"I take it you haven't reconsidered then?" finally asked Strauss, looking almost sullen at the revelation. The Ventrue answered without turning back, hand grasping the door's handle.

"I'll concede for now on the topic of your leadership. But I'll find the bastard who killed Albrecht and crucify him to an eastern wall. I want to watch as he frenzies when the sunlight crawls near. And I want to smell him being burned to ashes."


	3. Daytime Knights

_**Chapter III**_

_**Daytime Knights**_

"**It's a cruel thing, detective, choosing between two evils. You can only hope you manage to choose the lesser."**

The one thing he truly liked about Los Angeles was how familiar it was to home. Take away the landmarks- Hollywood, Times Square, Lady Liberty herself- and there were but a scant few differences left between this city of glitter and the Rotten Apple itself. Anthill, beehive, a jungle of concrete and steel clawing towards the heavens- the proverbial capitals of the opposite coasts could both be described with the same words. At their core, in the shadows of Babylonian towers, clamped in the labyrinthine spiderweb of streets, the people were the same. Tired folk in possession of unexplainable energy; epitomes of tunnel vision, scurrying around, each one bearing a ton on their shoulders, each one uncaring for the lives of the ones they brushed past on the sidewalk.

It was a masquerade without any masks. No matter how you looked or how you acted, you always ended up as a footnote in their daily existence-at most. Baby vision and a baby's understanding of the world- you existed just as long as they could see you. It was a depressing thought in a way- to be so alone amongst so many. But to him, it was calming. The hustle and bustle of the city, so alive even at the heights of its grey dullness, was an always welcome distraction. It took his mind away from questions that shouldn't be asked and memories of gunpowder scent stuck on his fingers.

Indeed, engulfed by this sea of strangers, Alexander Hawkins felt protected- and at peace.

It was the morning of October 1st. The biting chill reigning supreme contrasted a bit too sharply with the bright autumn sun, the rays of which made his dark skin glisten. The wilting trees lining up the sidewalk were an amalgamation of reds and yellows, and every hue inbetween. Pistol holstered on one side of his belt and police badge adorning the other, Detective Hawkins leaned on the side of his car in wait. Skyline Apartments seemed a nice enough place- maybe he would talk to Stella about it, even if only to prove he'd actually gone hunting for an apartment worth buying. That was perhaps her only negative quality- being so darn impatient. Stella lived her life ahead of everyone else, baby blues glued to the future. Alex himself was that particular brand of optimist who preferred to let things fall in place on their own accord.

Or maybe it was just because all those years on the Force had thought him each new day was a gift and not a given right.

The muffled song stemming from the radio came to an end on an all-too-cheerful note. As the announcer informed Alex, and everyone else listening, it was 9 AM, one of the double doors of Skyline Apartment peeked open. It was _precisely_ nine- and not a minute sooner or later. Detective Hawkins didn't know if it was just a coincidence or his would-be new partner had taken their agreement over the phone a bit too literally.

His first impression of Katherine Anderson was how horribly _out of place_ she seemed once she stepped onto the crowded street. It wasn't a question of how she looked or acted. It was instinctual- gut feeling or whatever you'd call it. As if there was an invisible shield surrounding the woman, the prematurely retired detective stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the waves of strangers brushing past her. She was the only one who looked truly _alone_, in every sense of the word- but knowing what he knew about her, Alex had little doubt it was by choice.

There was this old saying about looking into the abyss, but what few knew was that it didn't just stare back. There were no tell-tale signs, no fiery slanted eye glaring into your naked soul. It was a gradual process, like poisoning. The abyss was a predator that preyed on its own hunters. It mesmerized you, rooted you in place, while its tendrils crept closer and closer. And before you knew it, it was crawling into you. Slime clouding your vision; tar choking your lungs. It was an ocean undercurrent which dragged you down until you had no strength to fight back anymore.

Indeed, if anything else, the former criminal profiler was a survivor. She had dragged herself out, more dead than alive- but there was always a catch. You always brought something back. There was always the memory, the nightmare, your very own personal boogieman clawing with jagged nails from under your bed. Alex would never forget the face of his, the ear-shattering sound of a lone gunshot and the stickiness of the blood smearing his clothes. Of Katherine's he could only guess- but it was probably a correct one. The Harlequin case- pinnacle and pit of her career- had been all over the West Coast newspapers two years before.

Katherine herself he could only describe as "plain". She looked the classic girl-next-door, in a way. Bushy auburn hair brushing past her shoulders showed signs of futile attempts at taming. Casual clothes- bleached jeans and an oversized red sweatshirt meant to hide her tiny frame- could never make one guess she was a detective. The oversized bag flung over her shoulder was more fitting for a college student than a grown-up. Somehow, it seemingly detracted a decade from her years. Katherine Anderson really looked more like an absent-minded college girl than an LAPD profiler. Only her eyes- a green which reminded him of meadows in spring- hidden behind black-rimmed glasses, stood out. It was less than a spark- an ember perhaps, flickering amongst the ashes. But it was still a reminder of who she had been once, before the whole fiasco with her former partner had happened.

Alexander had no intention whatsoever of showing he had researched her background. The only courtesy he hoped to get in return was the same one he was extending to her. With a lopsided smile splitting his face, more befitting a kid than a man grown, Alex extended his hand.

"Hi," was Katherine's clumsy greeting, eyes looking at everything else but his own chocolate browns. "Detective Hawkins, right?" she asked and absent-mindedly shook his hand.

"Just Alex," replied the man, his smile as wide as ever, almost threatening to make the out-of-season sunglasses placed atop unruly black hair fall off. "We aren't government agents just yet. It's too early we call each other only by family name."

She didn't laugh at his lame attempt at a joke. Nor did he expect her to. But it was his _thing_. It was a remnant, a shell of his former self, now as much a mask as it was his armor. Alex laughed and joked and made an ass out of himself on general principal- it had been his genuine understanding of entertainment once, a lifetime ago. But nowadays, even just a mask sufficed. It had convinced his former boss, the guys back in New York, his family, friends- even Stella. Detective Hawkins didn't expect, even dare hope, to fool his new partner with it. The broken and the damned had the uncanny ability to sniff each other out. They would keep the charade of course- each one because of personal interests, because once you grew used to the mask it was too frightening to have it peeled off.

"The commissioner hates waiting," plainly stated Katherine, hands clutching the strap of her bag like a lifeline.

"Sure, sure. Not a good idea to make my new boss wait, huh?" said Alex and moved aside to let her get into the car.

Clear sky blue, twin racing stripes cutting through the middle and a history predating its owner, his first generation Chevy Camaro was Alexander Hawkins' pride and joy. In short, he was the kind of man who never fully outgrew adoring his toys. And the sound of this one's V8 revving up was just about Nirvana-inducing. In Stella it induced only headaches.

The ride was uneventful, rush hour escaped with lights on and siren billowing. Katherine showed no reaction to his little transgression. The music stemming from the radio (Alex always preferred some randomness in his music-it made for pleasant surprises) didn't seem to affect her either. Former Detective Anderson's gaze remained glued to the window. Alex couldn't tell if she was zoning out or surveying her surroundings with a surgeon's keen eye. Or both.

The man didn't question his new partner's choice of a mask. Hers was empty, white porcelain adorned with the not-smile of a harlequin's grin. A laugh was brewing up in his throat- sore and sour. The least they were was a dysfunctional duo. Alex had no idea what the higher-ups were thinking, assigning them to such an important case. But one thing he knew for sure- broken as both of them were, there was one crucial upside to all of it.

The more life broke them, the sharper they got.

* * *

"I assume I don't need to remind the both of you about the severity of the situation?"

It was as much a question as it was a statement. Commissioner Pamela Treadwell was the same as Katherine remembered her. Grey eyes, staring from beneath bangs of blond hair, emulated perfectly the keen gaze of a bird of prey. Sharp features only looked sharper coupled with the hoarseness of a voice twisted by one cigarette too many. The bluntness of the Commissioner didn't help others feel better around her either. Her constantly pursed lips, which went from thin to almost nonexistent upon any displeasure, still reminded Katherine of a scolding teacher. And while Treadwell had never been the type of boss who led her subordinates solely from behind a desk, she was no Mother Goose to the LAPD either.

If anything, the Commissioner was a bullying big sister who would beat up any outsider daring enough to threaten her little siblings.

Katherine herself had been perhaps the sole exception. She had hated it once- all the doting and not-so-subtle nudges at "safer" cases. The Commissioner had treated her like a brittle china doll, always in danger of ending up in pieces. It hurt, in a way- how Treadwell had been right, how _Father_ had been right. But Katherine had still been Detective Anderson back then- young and foolish and not a little bit too prideful. After all, how many officers could boast of being able to see through a criminal's eyes?

She had prized her metaphorical second sight as a gift once, a lifetime ago. In hindsight, calling it a curse was much more fitting. But then, again in hindsight, Katherine would have never so stubbornly insisted of joining the Force had she known what awaited her. And yet, she was there once more. In the old station, in Treadwell's old office- sitting in front of the same aged desk, with the same dutiful expression. The man next to her was a different one, but the familiarity of the case made her skin crawl. Two years ago, she had taken up the case with the disappearance of a teenaged girl.

And she had ended it with-

"A 15-year-old girl is missing," said Hawkins, forsaking his immature smile for the first time since they had met. "I don't think anything more needs to be said for anyone to see how urgent the situation is."

Treadwell didn't answer immediately. The Commissioner leaned back in her chair and rewarded her newest subordinate with the look of a farmer sizing up animals for slaughter. To his credit, Hawkins didn't bat an eyelash. Despite the overflowing ashtray, yet another cigarette found itself between Treadwell's lips. Katherine chose to let her gaze wander off to the ceiling fan hanging above. Its movement was mesmerizing in a way- a relic still living past its time, swirling ever so slowly. It reminded Katherine of a dog chasing its own tail. Many wondered why the Commissioner never tried to install any air conditioning. Katherine was fairly sure Treadwell would never willingly allow such a danger to the smoke curtain she oh-so-carefully kept constantly up.

"How should I put this, Detective," finally mumbled the Commissioner, seemingly more concerned with her failing Zippo lighter. "As much as I want to sympathize with your simple, albeit morally right, view on things… I. Just. _Can't."_

Hawkins was obviously trying too hard to retain the façade of a bumbling, yet loyal subordinate. His eyes didn't mirror the futile attempt at a half-smile. His knuckles were noticeably paler- and it frankly surprised Katherine how unchanged his voice was from the usual.

"Come now, Commissioner, surely-"

The flare of the lighter did nothing to warm up the coldness in Treadwell's gaze.

"Need I remind you, Detective, why you moved to the other side of the continent to keep working?"

The question shut him up, but Katherine knew it was only a one-time victory on the Commissioner's part. The former detective didn't need to get into her would-be partner's head to know he wasn't the kind to give up after a few harsh words. After all, Hawkins wouldn't have been in the same room as her otherwise. While Treadwell would assign him on such a case of all things, knowing his record, was another matter entirely.

Then again, her own history with such cases was less than stellar.

"Why aren't Hoskins and Ryker assigned to this case?" she asked despite her gut feeling advising her against it. It was a risky move, speaking up in such a situation. But if Treadwell dared reel her back in after Katherine's trip to hell and back, she considered herself entitled to a little bit of truth. "They are the ones with most experience and, frankly, I think they'd have the biggest chance of solving the case."

"Oh, I share your opinion," said the Commissioner and waved her hand at some invisible enemy, leaving smoke trails through the air. "But all those damn vultures outside want somebody like you two. It's a cross you'll have to bear- because Breckenridge himself insisted I force it on you. Mister Senator knows full-well the media will bust out the fine-tooth comb to inspect this clusterfuck and he wants the world to see two young and bright detectives looking for his daughter. Hoskins and Ryker, no matter how damn good they are, will be seen only as two fat balding doughnut-chomping cops."

Hawkins clearly wanted to protest perhaps, to rail at the unfairness of a father caring more about his image than his daughter. Whatever harsh words the man had chosen, they had no time to leave his mouth.

"And if you two give him a reason to come down and meddle in my work directly, there will be hell to pay," announced Treadwell, all-too-calmly for such a threat. "Understood?"

"Understood," echoed back Katherine. It seemed all she did nowadays was this- echo back. She was empty- all she could muster when interacting with others was to mirror what they wanted from her. Pleasant neighbor, loyal friend, dutiful employee- she had no different mask to wear in her daily life. The one she had fashioned, the one to which her real self had devolved, was just so featureless it could only reflect what others projected onto her.

Katherine Anderson had spent so much time looking under the masks of others, she had forgotten what she looked like beneath her own.

"You've read the reports, you've heard the briefing," said the Commissioner, pulling Katherine out of her stupor. "Now get out there and bring me a miracle."

The badge felt unfamiliar being once again in Katherine's hands- the gun even more so. But it was her choice to do it- not an echo, reflection, useless white noise. There was a girl out there, somewhere- alone and scared and in danger. And this time, _this time for sure_, Detective Anderson promised to herself she would save her.

* * *

The principal of Saint Lucia's was the kind of man you wanted to punch the moment you laid eyes on him.

Alex couldn't quite explain the feeling. It was an amalgamation of animal instinct and accumulated skill. The man's eyes were the beady sort befitting of a rat, listless grey in perfect match with the receding mop of hair perched atop his too-perfectly-round head. Said head appeared to be directly attached to the equally rotund torso, neck lost long ago amidst layer upon layer of lard. The tailored suit- some brand name which probably cost half a year of Hawkins' salary- strained in a futile battle to contain its owner's overflowing beer gut. Short and stubby, and so spectacularly sausage-like, the principal's steepled fingers threatened to burst under the pressure of gaudy gold rings.

But what truly made Alex dream of introducing his fist to that bulbous upturned nose was the haughtiness which radiated in waves from the principal, with every word he spoke and every breath he took.

"As I _already_ told your colleagues, detectives," said the principal, sleazy smile revealing pearly whites Hawkins wanted to punch out. "I'm sure there is no need for concern. Girls her age are flighty by nature. Maybe she has just sneaked out for a couple of days, maybe she's loitering around with some boy right now. Things like this _happen_. I assure you, when she comes back she will be thoroughly disciplined. But until then I see no reason why the police needs to be involved in such a, quite frankly, trivial matter-"

"We will be the judges of that," thankfully cut him off Katherine. His new partner was clearly trying to put on professional airs, to yank the lead away from the aging greaseball who could probably talk them out of their socks if they let him yap on long enough. Sadly, the desired effect was diminished by how small Katherine looked in the lavish cushioned armchair, matching the one Alex was fighting to stand straight on. The rotund man across the desk somehow seemed able to maintain perfect balance in his much more excessive pseudo-throne.

The whole place was like that, in a way. It was a different sort of glitz and glitter- but just like the tourist-trap parts of Angeltown itself, the academy had been built with the clear purpose of instilling awe in any visitor. The extravagant amalgamation of Baroque and Gothic architecture stretched upon a campus big enough to cover the territory of a small town. Dormitories rivaling your average Hollywood mansion in size aside, the academy boasted a church, a separate theatre and an honest-to-God racetrack. Alex wouldn't have been surprised if he ended up stumbling upon an Olympic-sized swimming poll later on. Indeed, Saint Lucia's boasted a different kind of vastness than the concrete jungle of Angeltown. The academy wasn't a welcoming place, or at least it didn't feel that way to Alex.

It certainly knew how to make you feel out of place. The academy embodied an off-putting mix of assimilation and exclusiveness. The sea of students, clad in perfectly identical uniforms, was just a mass of faceless nobodies in his eyes. The rational part of him was still aware that the ones enjoying the few warm rays of the autumn sun on the lush green school grounds were individuals. But that primal part of him, gut feeling, instinct, whatever you call it- made him feel like a ghost among the living.

The Academy was its own world, governed by its own rules. But Alex sure as hell wasn't about to let the proverbial goblin king sitting across the mahogany desk to have his way. Detective Hawkins was ready to swap his Chevy for a beat-down old Beetle, only for the chance to wipe the knowing smirk off the principal's face.

"What concerns me more is that we wouldn't have known unless the girl's… roommate," said Katherine, eyes darting over her notes. "Hadn't notified the police."

"You have to understand, detective," replied the principal, once again adorning a grin from ear to ear. "This school has a certain…_status_ to maintain. The children of many important and influential people attend this academy and we just cannot allow our name to be tarnished based solely on rumors and baseless conjecture. Such unneeded- and certainly _false_, if you ask me- alarms-"

"This child's _important and influential_ father," cut him off yet again Anderson. "Is insisting we take the matter very seriously. We'd also like to speak with Serena's roommate. With the current lack of leads, someone close to the missing person is our best bet."

"Your colleagues already questioned her," replied the principal, beady eyes locking onto Katherine's meadow greens. "I was there myself to answer a few questions. There is _no need-"_

Anderson went slackjawed for a second, probably too appalled by the nerve of the goblin king. His partner opened her mouth to speak but Alex's own words were faster.

"We will question her alone this time. There might be more sensitive information concerning Serena the girl wouldn't want to reveal around an… _authority figure_,"-words stinging in his mouth, ashes on his tongue-"such as yourself."

The principal went still for a second, as if he had forgotten about Alex's very presence in the room. Beady eyes turned hastily to meet his bird-of-prey stare, and answered only in short stressed blinks.

"Well, since you insist this much, detective," finally said the principal, trying and failing to hide the disappointment shadowing his face. "I'll lead the way."

* * *

No matter how many times she thought about it, the only way Katherine could describe Alice Hartcroft was as "a living doll". The girl had a petite, lithe body- borderline fragile at first glance. The paleness of her skin contrasted all too sharply with the dark color of her hair. Midnight black on fullmoon white, charcoal on milk. Alice had a pretty face- the sort of prettiness which came when youth bordered on adulthood. Her posture was prim and proper, elfin fingers pressing down the edges of her skirt, back as straight as violin strings. Her unseeing, milky eyes only strengthened detective Anderson's instinct to hug the girl tightly and hide her somewhere away from the evils of the world.

But Katherine Anderson didn't rely on instincts. At least not on the ones that had her trust there was good in every man, woman and child inhabiting this planet. Jean Jacques Rousseau had once claimed every human was born innocent by nature, a blank slate more predisposed to good than evil, whose development relied on how the person's life unfolded. The detective believed this statement wholeheartedly- but she lacked the optimism needed to find it a good thing. The world was much too cruel and dark and gritty to push humanity into the right direction. Plan for the worst case scenario; everyone's a suspect; assume guilty until proven innocent- that was the creed Katherine Anderson lived by.

Only once had she deviated from her beliefs. And that single instance, that sole mistake was more than enough to reinforce them for times eternal.

"So, Alice, I know you've been questioned already," started out Katherine, cheerful tone, smile rivaling the October sun outside. "But you would really help us out if you answered some more questions. The devil's in the details- maybe there's some tiny thing you forgot to mention, which seemed unimportant to you, that can help us find Serena faster. Oh, and don't just stick to our inquiries, do tell if there's something which seems helpful according to you."

Detective Anderson lacked any love for elaborate schemes and machinations. Spinning a fancy web only meant there were more chances for you to get tangled in it. She liked to keep things simple, clear, _precise_. Don't show pity- she probably hates it. Ask for her own opinion-treat her as an adult, not a child. Be informal, friendly, familiar- and look, look and _see_ beneath whatever mask Alice Hartcroft had donned.

"Well, I last saw her the night before yesterday," replied Alice, milky eyes turning in the detective's direction, voice as soft as Katherine had imagined. "Serena woke me up to ask for the key to the music room- I have a copy since I often practice on the piano. Apparently she had a date with Jed Rosenstein and wanted a place away from prying eyes. When she missed all three morning classes the day after I went to ask Jed but he told me he never went to meet her. There was a surprise inspection in the boys' dorms the same night. And so I got scared and called the police after I found the music room empty with the key still sticking out of the lock."

"And has Serena acted strangely in any way these past few days?" pitched in Hawkins. Sure enough, he was wearing his heart on his sleeve like always. Alexander seemed reeled in by the girl's delicate appearance. Katherine's new partner answered her expectations fully, considering her research into his career so far. A good man at heart- _perhaps_- but too involved in all his cases. Katherine preferred impartiality. Sterility even. The human element inside a detective only clouded potential judgment. Anderson didn't approach her cases as a woman, man or even an average person.

Always the impartial observer, always merely the one tasked with putting the jigsaw together, come hell or high water.

"Not that I can think of," answered Alice, turning in the direction of Alexander's voice, her head tilted in thought. "And she is so…bubbly! I would've noticed if something was wrong with her. No idea who might have something against her, too. Serena got along with everyone. She wasn't the type to seek or hold grudges either."

"I see," said Katherine, trying to will some positive energy into her voice. "Nothing out of the ordinary. Do call again if you think of something. We'll appreciate it."

Katherine probably wouldn't have caught on so quickly if not for the timing.

The moment Alexander opened the door to leave, the very second the cringes let out their signature creek and let the school bustle from outside to flood the room, Alice said with almost perfect hesitation:

"Well, there _is_ one thing…"

If you play a role, play it to the very end. This seemed to be the only thing both Katherine and Alice agreed on. With a needless fake smile on her face, five confident steps later, the detective was back in her seat across the black-haired girl. It surprised her, in a way, how much she had relied on looking at a person's eyes to judge them. But Alice Hartcroft was young and inexperienced and most certainly not a frequent manipulator. Useless theatrics had betrayed her where her body language couldn't.

"Do tell, Alice," said detective Anderson, chin propped on hand, green eyes fixed on her littlest suspect's face.

"The last few months Serena was keeping contact with the son of one of her father's associates. Leonard… Weissmann, I think. It didn't seem to be a big deal to her but…who knows?" said the raven-haired girl with a dejected shrug.

"Is that so?" asked Katherine and leaned closer to Alice. "Why did you pretend you had forgotten this until the last moment then?"

Detective Anderson didn't need an eye on the back of her head to guess her partner had raised an inquiring eyebrow. Katherine didn't care. Bluffs were meant to be called.

"What?" blurted out Alice, seemingly baffled. To her credit, no guilt showed on her face. She did seem the stoic, emotionless type anyway. But repressing your emotions didn't mean you lacked any. Detective Anderson took note of the girl's nervous tugging at her uniform's sleeves. "There is no such thing, detective. She hadn't even talked to him recently, as far as I know, so I just thought…well-"

"Your friend's safety may be at risk, Alice," pointed out Katherine, her voice back to its usual even and disinterested tone.

"Do _not _try to insinuate I don't care for her safety, detective."

The girl didn't raise her voice, didn't scowl in Katherine's direction. But her rosy lips grew thinner, petite hands clutched angrily the edges of her skirt. Her voice had a different undercurrent to it, too- steel under silk. Alice Hartcroft wasn't as frail as she seemed, apparently.

"Good. Then I'm sure I can expect your _full_ collaboration from now on."

This time there were no last-minute messages when they left the room.

That night, when Katherine was busy putting her former office back in order, lukewarm coffee in hand, she stumbled on an e-mail in the overflowing spam folder which caught her eye.

_**From: a friend**_

_**Subject:?**_

"_**Red moon eclipse. I wonder how long it will last."**_


	4. Tincrown Pawn

_**Chapter IV**_

_**Tincrown Pawn**_

"**God's Judgment? Don't make me laugh. There is only one here who will be passing judgment tonight. Dare you guess who?"**

"_The only way to test a sword is in the heat of battle, the only way to test a man is in the heart of war."_

Leonard couldn't remember how long ago Albrecht had said it. It had been a habit of his, to dispense wisdom at seemingly random times. His sire had been part of the old guard, of times when Ventrue had still been chosen from amidst dukes and marquises and not the up-and-comings on the latest Forbes list. Albrecht had always been, first and foremost, a warrior. The centuries had forced him to discard the armor and change his weapons, but- in chainmail or in Hugo Boss- the Ventrue's fire-tempered soul had remained unaffected. Maybe that was why his sire had born such disdain for younger Blue Bloods. It had never been an open sort of hate, oh no. It had been hidden in plain sight, somewhat- a thin veneer of contempt, signature for any Elder, had served to cover the man's disgust for the way the clan was heading in the Modern Nights.

And the man's childe couldn't help but agree. Much too many childer, with proverbial silver spoons tucked between their fangs, had made it into the ranks of the Kindred world's finest. It was his greatest source of pride- beyond even the blue blood in his veins- that he had earned with his own hands what others had been given freely upon birth. Many amidst the clan- pampered Old World Fauntleroys and mollycoddled American legacies- had the habit of looking down on him. No lineage, no history, no pedigree- as if the lack of such trivialities could brand him as inadequate. It was a mild annoyance at best and a headache-inducing aggravation at worst. But there was one thing which had always kept his spirits up- the ashen looks of shock on their faces when he pointed out he was off to build an empire of his own and not mooch off someone else's.

Indeed, for all the not-so-subtle sneers directed at the Clan of the Rose, many Blue Bloods themselves had a decisively Toreador way of handling their childer. There was no gothic romance flair or airport paperback saccharinity, but the level of familiarity was just about there. Ventrue lineages all too often emulated Kine nobility, much as they surely wanted for it to be seen as the other way around. His relationship with Albrecht had been anything but. The Ventrue Elder had never wanted an heir. A right-hand man, a confidant- _perhaps_- but never an heir. Irony of ironies, Albrecht had probably imagined himself ruling his modern-day kingdom for probably a millennia to come. And, accordingly, he had sired a proverbial general. Leonard's lot had been to rule, but never to inherit. To regulate and steer and expand- fully in command of whatever parts of Albrecht's financial empire were allotted to him.

A regent at best. A temporary, glorified accountant at worst.

"_A throne is earned, and never given."_

At first, it had been just yet another piece of Elder wisdom, yet another riddle taunting Leonard as his consciousness drifted away with every sunrise.

But he had solved it with the years. It was the way the world was meant to be- at least in Albrecht's eyes. Leonard had never been meant to be his heir. But if one day he could prove himself better- stronger, faster, wiser- then he would _deserve_ the right to stake his claims of inheritance. Some would have called this line of thinking backwards and barbaric. Yet Leonard couldn't help it but believe the clan- and the Camarilla by extent- would have never faced the problems which plagued them these nights if they had only learned to judge by merit and not by right.

The piercing car horn of the pickup truck behind him tore Leonard away from his musings on Camarilla politics, the Universe and Everything. The Ventrue suppressed his childish desire to patiently wait for the light to turn red again, whilst the driver behind him spewed fire and flames, and just took the left at the intersection of 2nd and Main. It had apparently rained during the day. The reflected gleam of the headlights made the wet asphalt glisten, as if covered with a thin layer of glitter. Aged streetlights revealed glimpses of the local nightlife. A hooker in a neon pink skirt, short enough to be qualified as a belt, was desperately trying to warm herself up on her cigarette's flame while waiting for the next John. No few then ten meters down the road a worried woman was fidgeting at the bus stop, seemingly well-aware she wasn't in the best part of town after dark. Some baby-faced punks were getting their latest fix across from a bum loudly proclaiming the inevitable Apocalypse. The usual night owls were sulking around, hoods up and hands in their pockets, deluding themselves there was a single person in that God-forsaken city who cared what they did.

And the police car parked next to the Surfside Diner clearly showed where the local PD's priorities laid.

"Welcome to Santa Monica," mumbled the Ventrue under his breath, half a sneer and half a sigh.

It wasn't hard to find a parking space for the Audi in the nearby garage. If anything, the place was dismally empty. Suspicious vans and beat-up Honest John classics were the only other vehicles in sight. Leonard vaguely wondered if he was ever going to see his car again. The autumn wind hit him hard when he reached the street. Heavy clouds loomed far above, blotting out the waning moon, and promising another storm to come. Leonard could only hope the proverbial one didn't arrive even before the literal. The air smelled different in Santa Monica. There was still the signature city stench- of gasoline and burnt tires on tarmac, but the ocean's salty tang was clear even amidst the smell of fresh rain. It seemed that the Lady by the Sea was living up to her name.

His destination was anything but hard to spot. Bright neon letters proudly proclaimed "Asylum", without a single care for ruining the façade of one of the older, architecturally decent buildings in town. A mish-mash of teens and twenty-somethings were crowding the front, their voices still obnoxiously loud after getting used to the artillery barrage of beats inside. The alleyway on the side was apparently a hotspot for those of the establishment's clientele who want to puke, piss or get it on- all three in a glorious drunken stupor.

Things weren't much better beyond the double doors. The music- or at least what passed for it in this place- hit him with the force of a freight train. The overflowing dancefloor was filled with people seemingly hell-bent on giving the wildly spazzing strobe lights a run for their money. Amidst this cacophony of colors, screams and grinding bodies, Leonard was pretty sure a guy could have a seizure, and the rest would just applaud his masterful performance. There wasn't much elbow space on the second-floor railings. Dozens of pairs of glazed-over eyes were fixed either on the gyrating clusterfuck on the dance floor or the group reigning over the small podium. Yet another was waiting in the wings, instruments at the ready.

Band fight night. Just his luck.

Leonard made his way to the bar with some trouble and a whole lot of elbow work. The bartender- a petite girl in her twenties, who showed no signs of outgrowing her teenage rebellion- was barely visible behind the wall of screaming clients. Half a minute and a fifty pinched between his fingers later, the Ventrue finally got the blue-haired girl's attention. Bright red contacts, encircled by what seemed half a pound of mascara, swiftly locked onto the treat and the bartender finally obliged to give him her time of the night. The girl leaned on the counter, as if to hear him better, and revealed a rather lackluster cleavage.

"What's it gonna be, hotshot?"

"A meeting with your boss upstairs," answered the Ventrue, sliding Ulysses closer to the bartender.

"Do you have an appointment?" asked the bluenette- Leonard mentally cringed at this description prowess- now visibly in no hurry to accept any tips or bribes.

"No, but I'm sure she would prefer to hear what I have to say," replied the albino, trying to keep the hunger-augmented agitation out of his voice. "Just tell her it's Weissmann."

"If you say so," said the bartender after some hesitation. Ulysses disappeared in some back pocket of her jeans. "Anything else?"

The crowd awarded the band's performance with a roar of approval. The lead singer, a woman with stringy black hair in a theatrically-tattered white dress, bowed to the crowd and just about skipped down the stairs of the podium. The wall of people soon hid her bare back from view, leaving only the nagging emptiness in his stomach as Leonard's companion. The Ventrue checked his reflection in the wall of mirrors behind the bartender- he had dressed down for the occasion, trying to be more casual to blend in. Alas, the sheer normalcy of his black jeans and red high-collared shirt made him stand out in this sea of poseurish doom and gloom. The mask of indifference he was trying to keep on was visibly cracking- lips pursed; pale knuckles rattling on the bar top. His eyes were going steadily paler, cherry red already drained into whitish pink.

Leonard wisely decided playing Jyhad on an empty stomach would be a notoriously careless idea and ordered a glass of the first brand of alcohol he laid his eyes upon. His chill-soaked fingers seemed to siphon the warmth of the drink even faster than the ice cubes in it. The albino let out an irritated sigh at the picky restrictions imposed on him by the curse of his bloodline and set off to find the stringy-haired songstress. Not his usual choice of prey, but she would have to do.

"Oooh, what do we have here?"

Tone all too reminiscent of poison-laced sugar, voice fit only to belong to a wolf in rabbit's clothing. Jeanette Voerman sauntered seemingly out of thin air, hands on her hips, and beamed the Ventrue a seductive smile.

"A little orphaned cub, perhaps?" cooed the Malkavian, mismatched eyes locked onto Leonard's. The blonde tilted her head quizzically, as if wondering what to do with her newfound prey. She reminded him all too much of a kid armed with a looking glass, searching for some ants to burn. "Are you lost, little one? Did you come here looking for a way to wash away the grief, hmm?"

Jeanette leaned closer with each drawled out word, sharp canines biting a carmine lip for emphasis. The effect was much more noticeable on her than the bartender- some long-dead part of his mind wondered if she wore red lingerie on purpose, to accentuate even further the undead parlor of her ivory flesh.

"Or," almost chirped Jeanette, circling around the Ventrue- wildcat sizing up prey. "Maybe- just _maybe_- you've come here seeking revenge?" the Malkavian brushed a hand across his shoulders, lips pressed closely to his ear. "I'm sorry, little cub," drawled out the Jeanette. "But I just don't think we can be playmates if you've come here on a righteous quest of misguided vengeance. Nuh-uh! That. Just. Won't. Do."

Each word of her final sentence was emphasized with polished nails digging a bit deeper into his shoulders. Leonard let out an irritated sigh- he had been doing that a lot for some _unfathomable _reason- and turned around to face his fellow Kindred. Jeanette Voerman was- in his eyes at least- a venus flytrap.

Catholic school dropout turned stripper- the whole act was so over the top you either got reeled in or dismissed her completely. But Leonard Weissmann was neither too young nor too old- he didn't drool, nor did he laugh. The whole getup was meant as a distraction anyway- and even he had to admit she was pulling it off greatly. A magician's trick: misdirection meant to mask and cover where the real "magic" happened. Or maybe it was just nature's way of warning the unwary predator, like the brightly-colored scales of a snake, whose fangs were dripping with poison.

Malkavians were feared for a reason, even if no self-respecting Kindred would be ever heard admitting it out loud. And no amount of cleavage, midriff or luscious thighs could make Leonard forget it. Voerman Junior was too much of a wildcard. There was no a rhyme or reason to her actions, and certainly no guessing her whims. _"Better tread carefully there_," warned himself the Ventrue. "_No telling how thin the ice really is._"

"They must've called the wrong sister," bluntly stated Leonard, keeping his eyes adamantly fixed on hers. Sapphire and emerald twinkled a bit too mischievously for his liking. "I've come to do business, not play around."

"Oh, is that so, darling?" chirped Jeanette, jester smile from ear to ear. "Haven't they told you already? The business services I offer _far _surpass those of my dearest sister. Are you sure she is the one you're looking for?" A manicured finger was currently tracing circles around his chest.

"Getting surer by the second," shot back the Ventrue, trying to will all lack of amusement into his features. He should've figured earlier that if there was one thing on Earth Jeanette Voerman didn't do, it was _subtle_.

"You're no fun," said the Malkavian, smile shifting into a perfectly faked pout. "And here I thought I had found myself a new playmate for the night. Alas, I guess it's just not meant to be, darling. Don't be a stranger, alright!"

Leonard Weissmann had experienced many things since becoming an undead monster- but none had ever flabbergasted him as much as one Jeanette Voerman flicking his nose as a form of goodbye. The seductress was just about to saunter off to whence she had come, without a single care in the world, when the Ventrue grabbed hold of her wrist. Some white knight waiting in the wings decided to interfere- all righteous fury and dreams of just rewards. Leonard's snarled "_Out!"_ cut him off before he could even word a full sentence.

"My, my, the little cub had fangs!" said Voerman Junior, tacking on a sorority-girl giggle for good measure. "Aren't you the bad boy, using Disciplines in a Camarilla-sanctioned Elysium! What would my dearest sister say, I wonder?"

"Oh, I'd very much like to speak to her and hear it with my own ears," said the albino, keeping an iron grip on his infuriating captive.

"Tut-tut! Not so fast, darling," chastised him the Malkavian, blonde twintails mirroring her shake of disapproval. "So few visitors come here looking for sis, true, but I just can't let her see a man alone without checking him first. That would be so _scandalous_,"-eyes widened for good measure-"wouldn't it?"

"Voerman!" grumbled the Ventrue through gritted teeth.

"Just 'cupcake' is fine, dear," chirped the blonde.

The Malkavian jerked her hand free and disappeared into the crowd, leaving Leonard to marinate into his own fury, with no outlet in sight. The albino was pretty sure he was bordering Frenzy already, but there was no time for such trivialities. His sire's death had erased all chances for half-measures. With each minute trickling away all trails were getting colder- if there were _any_ left. And unless the orphaned childe took measures, he knew full well that would be the least of his problems.

He caught up to Jeanette just as the elevator door was about to close. Leonard stubbornly lodged in a five-hundred-dollar shoe and squeezed into the cabin with all the righteous fury of a Ventrue scorned.

"_Every_ girl likes to be chased, little cub," said the blonde, back to the wall, crossed arms accentuating her breasts. "But there is a thing as 'too pushy', y'know that? So I suggest you listen to big sister, go home and tuck yourself in bed. I promise to come over and play some other night, alright?"

"Fifteen minutes," said the albino, trapping the Malkavian between his arms and the wall. "No more, no less. And I'm out of your hair."

In hindsight, he walked right into that one.

"So quickly?" gasped the blonde and plastered on a sympathizing pout. "You should really see a doctor for that, sweetling."

In a vain attempted to save face, Weissmann chose to merely continue his futile attempts to stare down the Malkavian. After what seemed like eternity, the elevator ground to a halt. The iron door to the side opened with an almost echoing screech. Jeanette finally obliged to answer, all sugary sweetness gone from her voice.

"You really are a party animal, aren't you?"

"I'm a Ventrue," shot back Leonard. "It's a clan trait."

"Wait here," said the blonde and leaned under his arm. "I'll go talk to the queen bee. But you're _so _gonna owe me for that one!" shouted back Voerman Junior as she went into the apartment.

Weissmann let out the air he hadn't noticed holding in. He was acting reckless-and stupid, so very _very_ stupid! But things had seemingly worked out. The walls weren't melting around him after all. He found it easier to delude himself that the hard part had ended. And eventually becoming yet another notch on Jeanette's bedpost would've been a small price to pay. Hell, some would've called it charity.

"Weissmann!" the elder Voerman's shrill voice put a swift end to the Ventrue's daydreaming. Therese was leaning on the doorframe, sizing up the younger Kindred from behind her glasses. Leonard had the nagging thought she was finding him wanting. "Come in," was the Malkavian's curt order, leaving him no choice but to follow his fellow Kindred inside her den.

The room clearly showed traces of its inhabitants- hell, it was as if there was a literal line to split the sisters' inner domain. Therese's overly organized desk contrasted sharply with the tacky heart-shaped bed on the other side of the room. The younger Voerman's clothes littered the floor- a trail leading to a door on the other side. The sound of a shower was clearly audible.

A positively unladylike snort came from somewhere next to him, prompting the Ventrue's skin to shift from 'excessively pale' to 'virgin snow'. The last thing he wanted now was Therese to think he was busy getting an eyeful of her twin sister's lingerie. And, judging by her flaring nostrils and wire-thin lips- she was doing just that.

It was shocking, in a way, how different the two sisters were. As shameless as Jeanette was, her sister was just as conservative. Remembering the old saying about emulation and flattery brought a weak smile to Leonard's lips. Therese looked as if born in a boardroom. From the tips of her Prada shoes to the carefully-styled topknot, Therese Voerman oozed coldness and confidence. But he found them much more welcoming than the over-familiarity of the younger Malkavian. The elder Voerman was the same kind of predator as he was, after all. The fact she was a known quantity- predictable and oh-so-easy to calculate- made her all the more easily dealt with. Or at least Leonard hoped so.

"My sister told me you were _very _insistent on seeing me, Mister Weissmann," finally said Therese, hands crossed and hawk-gaze fixed on the younger Kindred. "Dare I guess why?"

Leonard wondered why on Earth people would fixate so much on one sister and not even look twice at the other. They were twins anyway- it was the same 'body made for bedrooms' under that knee-length skirt and buttoned-up shirt… But he was getting sidetracked. _Sidetracked!_

"Well, it's an open secret anyway," answered the Ventrue with a shrug. "Many believe that chief suspect of my sire's death are you. At least among the Camarilla."

"And what about you?" asked Therese and leaned back on the desk, eyes never leaving his own. He could almost swear the temperature in the room was going down. "Do you believe these accusations?"

"I did ask for permission to enter, didn't I?" shot back Leonard, letting the not-so-subtle implications hang in the air.

"Bold words from a sireless neonate," replied the elder Voerman, a wicked smile playing on her lips. "What is it that you want then? And I advise you to speak quickly- Jeanette did tell me you _insisted_ in being given fifteen minutes only, right?"

"I don't think you are responsible," plainly stated Weissmann, choosing to bite back any comments on Jeanette's helpfulness. "You know full well about the possible consequences of Albrecht's death. And you're too smart to risk destabilizing the Camarilla even further in this situation just for the sake of position as Seneschal. It would be an empty title, nothing more."

Therese nodded in agreement and propped her chin on a well-manicured hand. Leonard took it as his cue to keep talking.

"Of course, some would say that this is your grand goal. Offering the ailing Camarilla to Rodriguez so he would accept you back into the fold, no questions asked. But we both know the Anarchs would never accept a traitor back, don't we? And you already have Santa Monica. There's nothing more they can offer you."

"So, if not vengeance…" said Therese and leaned forward, leaving it open-ended on purpose. Leonard had seen the predatory glint in her eyes in the mirror all too many times to miss it.

"It's an alliance I seek. Beneficial to us both."

"Do tell," said Therese and finally offered him a chair after moving to her own behind the desk. "You've got me curious now, neonate."

"It's quite simple, really," said the Ventrue and crossed his legs. Pale fingers tapped lightly on his knee. "The Anarchs, for all their stomping of war drums, know full-well they won't be able to handle open war on two fronts- us and the Kuei-Jin. And there's no way this is a Sabbat job. The very fact that the academy is still standing proves it. They do raids, not assassinations. And this can only lead to the conclusion that it's an inside job. But even if I find the one responsible from within the ranks of the Camarilla, it's going to be my word versus theirs. A nobody wouldn't even dream of pulling this off. It must be someone high up. Hell, it can even be another Ventrue. That's where you come in. I need the backing of someone with enough clout in LA to levy any accusations without being afraid of ending up as dust in the wind."

"Suppose I help you," said Therese and steepled her fingers as she leaned to study him more closely. "How would it benefit me, exactly, aside from letting me sleep with a clean conscious?" asked the Malkavian, with a tiny mocking smile playing on her lips.

"I would back you up as Seneschal," answered Leonard, carefully tossing bait in the proverbial murky waters. "Strauss would never appoint another Tremere. The Toreador and the Nosferatu would be too busy clawing their eyes out and the Brujah have never been a popular choice for Camarilla leadership in LA. That leaves our two clans. And if I vouch for you, the position's as good as yours, with no internal strife to ruin the Camarilla. So far."

"This all sounds fine and dandy indeed, Mister Weissmann," said the elder Voerman, absent-mindedly studying the crimson polish on her nails. "I just can't help but wonder how a sireless neonate would sway his elders."

"That's the thing," replied Leonard with a knowing smirk. "Being a 'sireless neonate' has its perks for a Ventrue. Right now, they'll be obligated to help me, whether they like it or not. The clan has to look united to outsiders, so even Albrecht's rivals from within our ranks are expected to assist me with anything I need, even if just so they could save face. No Ventrue in LA would dare show distrust or animosity to a dead Primogen and Seneschal's childe. The important thing is me making the first step, so they would look like dissenters upon disagreeing. But there's no one who would suspect, not even Strauss, who is currently under the assumption I'm on a crusade against you."

"You are a wicked man, Leonard Weissmann, you know that?" finally said Therese and granted the albino a rare look of approval for nearly ten solid seconds.

"I just do what is needed," replied the Ventrue with a shrug.

He knew his clanmates would be less than thrilled about his actions- and that there were going to be severe repercussions in the future. But those were worries for another time. Besides, Voerman's promotion would mean getting Strauss out of his hair, considering the Tremere would be too busy periodically checking his back for any stray knives.

"There is just one thing," suddenly said Therese, letting out a theatrical sigh.

There was a thing. _Of course_. There always was some twisted little _thing_. God forbid things went smoothly, the Earth itself could explode or something.

"Before we shake hands, I will need some evidence your help will be more than just a one-time occurrence," calmly announced the Malkavian and procured two wineglasses and a bottle from a nearby cabinet. "An… assurance of your aptitude, if we may call it so." The blood swirling in his glass was oh-so-inviting, but even as his lips cracked, Leonard waited to hear the end of it. "Lately we've been having some problems with the herd in Santa Monica. Substance abuse. Nothing unusual, you might say, but- sadly- this is not the case this time. Whoever's making this new brand of drug, he's mixing _vitae_ in it. You can imagine how _dreadful_ can be the consequences of such mass ghouling. And I cannot permit some overly-ambitious Kindred to build his private army of… _junkies_ in my own domain!"

"Just…_ just_-let me clear things up," said Leonard, cutting her off. "You want _me_, who is offering you the position of Seneschal- basically for _free_- to track down some vampire drug lord?"

"Congratulations, neonate," said Therese and raised her glass in a toast. "You've hit the nail on the head." The Malkavian seemed most amused by the younger Kindred's astonished expression. "Consider it the traditional boon owed to the leader of the domain you visit. After all, you Ventrue are such sticklers for tradition, are you not?"

Leonard answered her toast in silence. Not like he had any other urgent business to take care of, oh no! With so much free time, why not chase down some cult-building bad guys?

Whatever part of Leonard's brain housed his last shreds of humor reminded him to take a bag for any stray coins floating in mid-air he might find.

* * *

The cab trip to Hollywood was mercifully uneventful. The distant rumble of rolling thunder was now accompanied by October rain, its speed steadily picking up. The raindrops bombarded the car like bullets, competing with the throbbing currently pulsing in Leonard's skull for which annoyance would be the first to drive him crazy. The Ventrue rested his forehead on the window, tired eyes trying to pierce through the veil of the rain on the other side.

"Rough night?"

The Ventrue couldn't tell if the driver was looking at him- a pair of unneeded nighttime shades was the only thing he saw in the rearview mirror.

"Something like that," muttered the sireless childe, more to himself than anyone else. The cars in the opposite lane were melting into a single streak of disjointed light as they passed by. The looming skyscrapers of the city were soon replaced with the sparkly neon landscape of Abrams' Barony.

The old cab screeched to a halt in front of Café Cavoletti. The high-end restaurant was a leftover from the previous regime, a little piece of Camarilla paradise smack-dab in Anarch territory. It wasn't that much of a profitable business. Leonard suspected LaCroix had bought it out of spite, more than anything else. 'Cavoletti' was the proverbial slap in Abrams' face, a constant reminder of how easily the Camarilla could enroot itself in his Barony, barely on a whim. Things weren't that simple, of course- nor nearly as easy as the last Prince had wanted the rest of LA to think. Hollywood was Anarch to the bone. Hell, you could say that for the majority of Angeltown. The once-jewel of the Free State had never forgotten its origins. This concrete oasis was still the Wild West, no matter what some Tradition-obsessed Camarilla Elders said. The Anarchs knew it. The Kuei-Jin knew it. The Sabbat, too.

Leonard was pretty sure even Maximillian-bloody-Strauss was aware that the Old World had declared Los Angeles an unimportant backwater case of free-for-all decades ago. The city wasn't just the center of a Cold War- it was just another West Coast battlefield stuck in transitory peace. It wasn't a question of if or who or why. The only valid question was _when_ this powder-keg of a city would go up in flames.

Indeed, 'Cavoletti' was nothing more than the Elder equivalent of a childish prank. Leonard frankly couldn't fathom how Kindred who numbered their years in the hundreds could so easily mirror the thinking of a twelve-year-old with an overflowing bank account in Switzerland. But, nonetheless, he liked the place. Not many Camarilla spies bothered with this place, given how obvious it was. And it was a welcome respite from all the glitz and glamour of Hollywood. Some would have called the place 'stuck-up'. One Leonard Weissmann found it to be borderline_ cozy_, but whether it was personal taste or Ventrue haughtiness, he couldn't tell. All in all, a good place for a business_ meeting_, regardless of the factions involved. Camarilla agents considered it their proverbial high chair in Abrams' Barony and Anarch middle-men saw it as relatively safe and harmless, considering its location. Why she insisted so much on calling them business _dates_, Leonard still couldn't tell.

The Ventrue shook the stray raindrops out of his hair as he entered, red eyes scanning for his contact. For a Nosferatu, she was rather easy to find. The again, it wasn't like Imalia ever tried to hide herself or anything. Hell, any Kindred not in the know would have pegged her as your run-on-the-mill, vanity-stuffed Toreador dollface. Leonard had to give it to her, for being barely a decade old, she sure knew her Obfuscate. The narcissism of a Cleopatra was a scary thing indeed. Imalia had lived _for_ the spotlight, died _because_ of it- and kept on clutching it even after, clan curse be damned.

The Nosferatu's olive eyes stumbled upon him seemingly on accident, and Imalia visibly perked up, a crimson smile dancing on her painted lips. Leonard had no doubts she had noticed him before he had even entered, but played along. The Ventrue had no idea why she insisted so stubbornly on this charade. It was a coin toss between stroking her own ego and goading him into breaking Elysium rules.

"You're late," said Imalia as she rose to greet him, an accusation as false as it was theatrical. He was ten minutes early. The Nosferatu pressed a kiss on his cheek- Leonard didn't bother returning the gesture. His… 'date' showed no outward signs of being irritated by it. Seeing no other viable option, the Ventrue opted to just echo the cab driver.

"Rough night."

"Well, you know I specialize in making things better," said the Nosferatu as she returned to her seat. The baby-blue dress chosen for the evening came with a generous slit to the side. Imalia pretended not to notice the leers of the other male patrons as she crossed her legs and bared a thigh. The curls of her raven hair flowed freely down the only shoulder covered by her asymmetric dress, leaving the other bare, so men could freely marvel at her Mediterranean complexion.

It was in moments like those that Leonard wondered what her admirers would say if they could see past the glamour. Curse, retch, pass out from shock? Weissmann knew his fellow Kindred was fishing for praise and not for prey. Even now her almond eyes were innocently looking around, stopping only to hold gazes with some unfaithful husband or other. Leonard had no doubt that Imalia would end up with one of them after this little rendezvous. She'd lead her victim away with promises for a quick romp in the bathroom or maybe a full night at some nearby motel. She'd whisper in their ears, press her body to theirs, have them run their fingers through her non-existent hair. Perhaps she'd feed during the deed, maybe after, maybe not at all. The blood was an afterthought to her. Imalia hunted solely so she could revive her old self for some fraction of the night.

Did she drop the Obfuscate in the end? Or perhaps in the middle of it, burying sharpened claws in their backs to keep them from running? Leonard himself could only guess what was underneath the false skin of a death supermodel. But the Ventrue was really sure it was a pretty damn educated guess. Putrid breath, corpse-like skin peeling away, piss-colored eyes, teeth like rotting needles- the works. Weissmann was pretty sure there were thin-bloods less in denial of their clan status than Imalia.

But she was useful and it was all he needed. If the Nosferatu wanted this pity-party date charade, he was willing to oblige. Hell, it was a better way for information exchange than the jump scares most of her clanmates favored.

"Anything on Saint Lucia's?" asked the Ventrue, not even sparing a glance for the waiter who had just arrived with the 'wine'.

"Now about _that_," started Imalia, sounding almost apologetic. The Nosferatu ran a finger on the edge of her glass before answering. "Keep in mind, when the Camarilla got the idea to turn the academy into a blood doll factory, they made _sure_ to keep us Nosferatu out. Apparently you types don't like anyone poking their noses around while you nibble on some schoolgirl's tender, juicy neck."

Imalia emptied her wineglass in a single gulp and shot a teasing look at the Ventrue. "Go figure."

"So you can't get in?" asked Leonard, his voice unable to hide the weird mix of frustration and amazement. He didn't know anyone could make a place Nosferatu-proof. The very concept was _baffling_.

"We can't get in _undetected_," corrected him Imalia, visibly amused by his reaction. "That's quite the important detail, y'know. The maze of tunnels under the school is out of the question. Up until twenty years ago they were fully sealed, nowadays the whole place is under video surveillance. Can't use rats, too. They poison the air five times over to make sure we don't send any living critter past. Same story up on the surface. Feeding is done only in specially designated rooms equipped with infrared cams. Even if we use Obfuscate to pass off as some prissy Toreador, we'd get noticed setting up our own cams. Every blood doll is examined periodically to uncover any trace of ghouling- so we can't get an agent on the inside either. The whole surveillance system is a self-sustained, closed-circle network. No connection to the Internet, so no chance to hack it from a distance. The mainframe is in a panic room inside the principal's office, which can be opened only with a combination of a password, finger _and_ retina scan. Since getting in there would be obviously a one-time-only thing, we haven't even bothered to do it. The Camarilla higher-ups are taking turns providing blood for the principal, so no clear domitor who can take advantage of it."

Imalia twirled a lock of hair around her finger and let out a theatrical sigh.

"So, you see, there's just no way I can help you on that front. A Primogen-or the Prince- may give you permission to view the footage from that night, but if it _was_ an inside-job, I bet anything important has already been deleted."

Leonard was starting to wonder if he would ever stumble upon anything _but_ dead-ends. More and more the Ventrue was starting to realize how perfect a place the murderer had chosen. After all, white spots on the Nosferatu map of espionage were rarely- if _ever_- found. Still, there was no reason to despair, Weissmann reminded himself- he could still try to investigate the academy in person. Or at least the people concerned.

"But," announced Imalia with a victorious smile and leaned forward on the table, tossing back her hair. "I do know that Camarilla puppet holed up in the academy has been… _outsourcing_ blood dolls to the Confession. I bet he wouldn't like it if you announce he was giving those juicy morsels to the Anarchs behind the Camarilla's back."

"I knew you'd pull through," said the Ventrue, part of him pretty sure he even meant it. Good news was scarce to come by these nights after all.

"Anytime for you, Leo," just about purred Imalia and leaned forward with a smile. The Ventrue was pretty sure the cleavage-display was meant for the almost-gaping guy on the table behind them. Ignorance truly _was_ bliss sometimes- the mental image of fake breasts on a non-Obfuscated Nosferatu made him cringe on the inside. Strauss had claimed Albrecht's death had visibly unhinged the neonate. Leonard dared say he was starting to doubt if some Malk hadn't tossed him on Albrecht's doorstep, given the thoughts recently swimming around his jumbled brain.

"One more thing," said Weissmann, desperately trying to reel things back on track. "Do you happen to know anything about some new… ghouling drug in Santa Monica?"

"Oh, that one's all the rage, Leo," absent-mindedly answered Imalia while signaling the waiter for another glass. "Yet I can't help but wonder why you would be curious about the troubles in Voerman's domain. Anything you might want to share?"

"I heard Therese is dead-set on hunting down the one behind it," replied Leonard, pretending not to notice as the Nosferatu nonchalantly snaked his own glass away from him. "Considering how likely it is Albrecht's death is yet another of her power-grabs, it is in my vested interest to keep her as occupied as possible for now. Giving a helping hand to whoever's behind this would be the smart thing to do."

"You _heard_?" echoed Imalia, raising a delicate eyebrow.

"You're not the only Nosferatu around," plainly stated the Ventrue. He didn't care particularly if she believed him or not. But he wasn't about to divulge such gossip as his newborn alliance with the saner Voerman.

"You've been seeing other Nosferatu!?" exclaimed Imalia with mocking shock clearly evident on her face. "I'm hurt, Leo, I really am," she added and placed a hand on her chest to strengthen the façade of her false surprise. The Ventrue pretended not to notice how the other customers were throwing curious glances at their table. With yet another tired sigh, one Leonard Weissmann clasped his fellow Kindred's hand, leaned forward and muttered through gritted teeth: "I'm sorry."

"Your acting is just _horrid_, you know that?" shot back Imalia after a second or two, pulling her hand out from under his. "Everybody thinks this new drug is a Santa Monica thing," said the Nosferatu, finally getting back on track. "But the drug was introduced to the streets in Downtown. Surprise, surprise, the very first hotspot was the 'Confession'. I think Dreyson's due for a visit, hmm?"

"That's it?" asked the Ventrue, raising an eyebrow in surprise. "You know nothing else?"

"Oh, I know plenty of things, Leo," replied Imalia, biting a nail suggestively and leering at the guy behind her fellow Kindred. "But you know I can't divulge any info for free," she said, finally turning her eyes back to his own. "No matter how much I like the one asking."

"Name your price."

Leonard said it before she had even finished speaking. It was a Ventrue trait, instinct too deeply ingrained in his nature. Too trade and haggle and-no matter what- to obtain what he desired. Wiessmann found something disturbing in the Nosferatu's smile.

"Who is Albrecht Weissmann's childe going to support as LA's next Primogen?"

The question took him by surprise and Leonard had no one but himself to blame. No matter her quirks and vanity, Imalia was still her sire's childe. And the Ventrue had the nasty habit of forgetting Gary Golden would have never assigned her as his personal agent on the surface just because of familial ties. Lying was out of the question. She was too valuable as an informant, plain and simple. And now, more than ever, he needed a Sewer Rat on his side. Well, she had given him _some_ clues to work with…

"He'll vote for the one whose rise to power will benefit him the most," said the Ventrue and rose from his chair, leaving a slightly-disappointed Nosferatu behind.


End file.
